To Break a Soul
by smalltown something
Summary: A century in the Bronze Sector, a century to think about her life; but in all that time, it only took a moment for her to fall in love with a beautiful voice. A story beginning before H.G. is released, falling for Myka, before laying eyes on her. H.G/Myka
1. Buried like a splinter

Title. break my soul.

Author. totalcapslock, or mickey.

Rating. p.g., for right now.

Fandom. warehouse 13.

Pairing. myka bering/h.g. wells.

Spoiler. season two.

Summary. What does it feel like to be frozen in time? Could even one of our times greatest authors, H.G. Wells, truly illustrate the depravity in which the mind will sink, when left solely to its own accord? This is a story that begins before the larger then life woman strolled down streets no longer cobbled and clobbers by horse and buggy. This is the story of a woman who fell in love with a voice, long before she laid eyes upon its owner.

Authors Note! This is my first foray into IWarehouse 13/I fan fiction, and I find myself completely enamored by the chemistry between Myka and H.G. I see, and read, a lot of fantastic stories about how they would fix the ending of Season two (Which I applaud, good going everyone!). I thought about how it would all begin, how a connection would spark between Myka and H.G. before they even laid eyes on each other.

bChapter one/b; Iburied like a splinter./I

I"Mummy,"/I that single word reverberated in her mind for the millionth time, literally. Today it was just an echo, a faint whisper of her typical torment. But she could picture it all without being prompted anymore. Dark hair lashed across painted crimson, a child's face turned upright in a look of horror. It was a fictional image her mind conjured up, but it seemed real. It was the only grasp of reality she could promise herself. Fiction. An author gets lost in their creations, pulled down into the depths of their imagination, where only their mind is the limit. Decades of darkness, of solitude, proved how great her mind truly was. It had no limit, no semblance of a stopping point. Each constructed detail was perfectly aligned with her false reality.

Living every moment, of every day inside her mind. Inside her own slice of splintering hell. She was unsure even she, one of the greatest authors of her time, would be able to describe utter solitude in words. It seemed to defy any definition that fell across her thoughts. It would be impossible to describe the yawning madness, gaping dark, sinister teeth inside her mind. Devouring what polished light her soul kept once her decision to cease living in the world was made. It claws and chewed through piece after piece of her character, leaving a gnawed husk of unrecognizable proportions in its place. She wondered if she would be able to recognize herself anymore. If the madness crawling under her unforgiving skin could be laid bare in her bronze frozen eyes, ever open and ever blind.

Sometimes, when she remembers that she isn't the only solitary creature in the room, she wonders what the darkest minds to grace the earth think about. Is their existence a bundle of absolute madness, too? How much in common does she have with a child murderer or a genocidal dictator after a hundred years of nightmares? Enough? She was never positive, she could never be positive. Sometimes it almost physically hurt, to acknowledge that she would never share such a simple thing as a conversation. Loneliness, it could bring the greatest of minds to their knees. And that was why they were hear, this was their purgatory, their eternal torment, punishment for whatever they did to Ideserve/I being here. Her torment always came in the shade of dark, innocent eyes and a wide, toothless grin.

"Pete, I don't think that we're in the right isle." The voice was unsure, it reverberated through the bronze nestled over her body; hugging her like a devil's embrace. "What're all these…statues…" Again, that voice. She hadn't heard a single nuance of language that hadn't been a byproduct of her mind in…how long had it been? Decades? Centuries? What was the world like outside the shell of unforgiving metal that was her home? Ears strained to hear the steps, moving closer, further away; there was no discernable rhythm to the steps. When she couldn't hear them any longer, her mind relaxed, as if it had replaced every unmoving muscle in her body. It settled back into the swallowing darkness of her mind, setting upon its hunches and waited for the next wave of thought to roll through.

"This one doesn't look like the rest." Out of nowhere, phantom fingertips. There were a painful jolt through her body, but she knew that they couldn't actually be touching her. She was a glorified statue. "All the others look angry, this one looks…sad." Whoever this woman was, she found herself actually hoping that it wasn't just her mind. That this beautiful voice wasn't just some aspect of her solitary madness; she didn't want to taint the inflection, the shocking, almost painful touches. It was the first thing she had truly felt in…a century. The warmth of fingers pushed through the bronze to rest upon the pale cheek hidden within, she could almost imagine that the fingers belonging to that perfect voice were truly settled on the curve of her cheek. Not the bastardization of metal that was formed to look like it.

"You don't belong here, do you?" II do./I The world were whispered harshly through her mind, wishing she could warn off the faceless cherub that was caressing the metal of her prison so fondly. Like she knew what lay just beneath it. She didn't deserve this treatment, but how she craved the fleeting warmth of wistful fingertips. She would have offered up what portion of her soul still rested within her; she would have wrestled her own madness to bare everything to the voice caressing her devil's ears. She wished that she could nuzzle her face into the scalding warmth of the hand, so close, but so far. Her body didn't even strain to move, unable to in the smallest of senses.

"I don't remember reading anything in the manual about this place," again, she wanted to answer back. Open her mouth and tell this beautiful voice to turn around and save herself the torment of residing amongst them. IThem./I She now considered herself a at-home addition to the darkest minds and souls to grace the planet when a Warehouse has also accompanied the earth. She had heard the scratching of new bronze being forced into this hellish mull of sinister feeling. There was never a feeling of the living treading between and around the metal-dead. Except for this caress of humanity, currently resting a hand on the slope of a narrow, unmoving bronze shoulder. She wished to free just a hand, to study the face of this salvation with her fingertips as a blind man might. The slope of a nose, the plush of lips, the cupid's turn of a cheek.

"Myka!" The voice shattered her delicate balance of nerves, her mind recoiled at the sharp male voice hollering from the distance, "Myka, where'd you go? This place is really giving me the…" Rushed, heavy footsteps came to an abrupt end not far from her. She could imagine with an author's mind his bewildered anxiety; eyes unsure, and mouth slightly open. She didn't not need to remember what a man truly looked like to know the gate of easy steps and the hush of expressive arms. "…creeps. Whoa, what's with all the statues?" She did not connect with the voice, he was merely background music; a noise that distracted her darkening senses, waiting for the warmth on her shoulder to reassert itself. Herself.

"I'm not sure. I think I saw a statue of Ghangis Khan somewhere over there," the phantom touch left, and her tether to the world was cut. Anxiety began to crawl up her throat like it hadn't in decades; the first ten years are the worst. Getting comfortable in the silence, settling into the darkness of only a unstable mind. No outside influence, no promise of redemption. There is nothing to harm, or be harmed by in the Bronze Section; except one's self. Ears strained to catch the slight, barely there rustle of clothing, the scrap of shoes across the floor and the whisper of an unnoticed breath upon her frozen shell. This moment felt like she was beginning her sentence of loneliness all over again; her mind was more awake than it had been in years, stretching its metaphorical wings, stretching outward to the source of that perfect, touching voice.

"We should probably get going, Myka. Not that hanging with all the creepy angry looking statues isn't awesome," the male voice persisted once again, his voice growing more distant as he sauntered off. She decided she hated him, as deeply as she could hate a man she never pick out of a line-up. "But you know what will be more awesome? INot/I hanging out with the creepy angry looking statues." His voice was almost far enough that she couldn't hear him anymore, his voice barely a vibration in the burnt amber of her human shaped cell. An exasperated sigh rung out against the shield on her cheek, the hand returned; except this time it wasn't a caress to her shoulder or cheek, but a agitated pat to the flat of her collarbone.

"You're so childish, Pete." Her angel, Myka, exhaled with something of a laugh; a sound that practically broke her withering heart. She wished to laugh along with her, to cause that small, exasperated sound. But she was only rewarded with the faint cry of shoes leaving. Her seraph of salvation was leaving her alone. "I should really ask Artie what this place is. They don't look like artifacts." Faint, soft and forgetting. She was nothing more than a human shaped artifact from another time. A frozen reminder of what her time had been like, forgotten to the world around her. She was a relic, that didn't even know it yet, but she had found some hope. Hope that came with the disembodied voice of a woman who could read something in the bronze of her eyes. Myka. The name trounced through her mind like a whirl of new thoughts; the first fresh name to add to her madness, the first diversion from her personal brand of torture. And yet, she felt calmed; even with the itch of anxiety worming around in her chest, even with the fright of being here forever. She couldn't think of those, not at that moment.

She could only remember the faint brush of warm, human fingers.


	2. Ripped apart like paper

**Title.** to break my soul.

**Author.** totalcapslock, or mickey.

**Summary. **What does it feel like to be frozen in time? Could even one of our times greatest authors, H.G. Wells, truly illustrate the depravity in which the mind will sink, when left solely to its own accord? This is a story that begins before the larger then life woman strolled down streets no longer cobbled with stone or clobbered by horse and buggy. This is the story of a woman who fell in love with a voice, long before she laid eyes upon its owner.

**Disclaimer.** I don't own Warehouse 13, nor any of its characters.

**Chapter two**;_ ripped apart like paper._

If this was a fairytale, she wondered if she was the damsel in distress, or the chained dragon. She certainly felt the distress caressing each frozen joint of her body, it rolled through unmoving bones and swelled in catatonic muscles. It defined _what_ she was, not even _who_ she seemed to be. She felt like she was walking down an endless corridor, set completely in the black of night. She couldn't bear witness to each of her steps bringing her forward, but somehow she knew she was moving. Her hand groping along a wall she couldn't see, until she came upon a doorknob; she knew what would be on the opposite side of the door. Her worst nightmare, her most cherished memory, a mediocre conversation, a moment of triumph, or a wallowing length of despair. She never wanted to open the door, but she could never stop her hand from opening the door. She couldn't stay in the darkness, disembodied in her own mind, rolling through nothingness without the light of memory.

It was not just the nightmares that tore at her; it was the happy memories as well. She would never again be graced with her daughter's smile, or her laughter. Her heart broke most when she felt the cold phantom touches of her dead daughter's small hands on her cheeks, directing her head down to see the ghost's smile directed up to her, a resounding _"Mummy."_ would roll through her, it bounced off the untouchable darkness, fading further and further into the background. Disappearing, dying. She'd search for the slightest indication that she wasn't alone, that somehow her daughter had slipped out of heaven and joined her mother in hell. Her beautiful mind used to scoff at such thoughts, a hundred years ago; when her logic was still a heavy weight upon her conscious. That was no longer a stipulation; logic had died decades ago, leaving her with the impossibilities of madness.

_"Absolute madness."_ The voice filtered through the darkness; crawling fingers digging into her soul and pulling it down that pitch sunken hallway. The voice was familiar; octaves lower than her own, but so similar. _"What're you going to come up with next, Helena?"_ Such affection broke her heart, since the man who spoke it was long dead; she didn't even know when, or how. There was a doorknob in her hand, her knuckles were white with the grip she had on it. The voice seemed muffled now, as if it was behind this door her mind constructed; as if she could merely step away, and she would be spared looking upon the face of one of her closest confidantes. Had she relied upon logic, she could have merely promised herself not to think about it, but she didn't have that logic anymore. She hadn't for years.

Her solitude had taken form of a palpable darkness; it was no longer under her control. It was an entity all its own, and she had come to revere it as such. It was a untamable beast that lurked somewhere dark in her heart, sniffing out the wide, gaping fissures in her psyche where it could hurt her the most. It's snarling pitch snout grinning sinister fangs, and molding its infinite abyss to her daughter's smile or her brother's laughter. It taunted her, mocked her and urged her further into its coldly comforting grip of oblivion. It promised to salve all her wounds, if she merely relinquished the last piece of her soul that she held tight to her bosom. She refused, adamantly. It didn't matter if her Christina's darling dark eyes blinked innocently up at her, asking for just another treat; hand extended happily to receive _just one more_. But she couldn't; this last piece was for her, she would never give into the implications of sinister salvation.

_"Just give it up,"_ It wasn't the darkness asking for her sliver of self, but another voice; deep and jovial. This time her white knuckled grip couldn't stop her hand from turning the knob. It creaked, foreboding in her mind, and swung open to reveal the scene; silent as a endless night, peaceful as a mid-afternoon nap. The snout of the darkness pressed urgently into her back, and forced her forward just three steps; the door slammed shut behind her. _Dark eyes looked upward and stared into the young face of her elder brother, something of a scowl had formed on her lips, but she was just young enough for it to appear to be impudent anger. Hands poised on hips, feet shoulder length apart as she squared off against the larger man. She could recall this day perfectly, there was no mislabeling the manuscript written perfectly in her own handwriting upon Charles' desk. This was the day she reinvented herself. She ceased to be merely Helena George Wells; last child of Joseph and Sarah Wells, only daughter and future conquest of some mediocre, undeserving man. She became a concept, a secret, and a mystery with this one conversation. This one accord between siblings; her brother became the public face, he took all the credit, but he could never step into the burdened shoes of her new identity. H.G. Wells._

_"It's a brilliant idea, Charles. If you'll take your head out of the horses' arse long enough to realize it," her voice was animated, her features expressive. She hadn't always been so aloof, so reserved and observant. At one point she had been a eighteen year old girl; with grand, impossible dreams of the future. "Take all the credit, see if I care. They near laughed me out of the office when I went to hand it over." It had been a backhand to her precariously perched ego; it near took the topple before her quick, unrelenting mind scrapped together some impossibility of an idea. She had spotted Charles just returning from his apprenticeship, and she hounded him up the stairs until he stopped long enough to listen to her. The stack of papers waved in emphasis to her point until they found themselves here. Brother and sister squared off at the precipice of a choice that would change their lives. Eighteen and twenty, barely adults, but Helena Wells had never truly been a child. She had been a small adult, fighting the dresses her mother forced onto her, declaring her independence of afternoon-tea with her aunts, and glowering at the idea of /IetiquetteI._

_"I'd have loved to see that. My head-strong sister being/I laughed Iout of a building. Any of those blokes make it out with their hide?" Charles had always been the sibling she was closest to, maybe it was the close age range. Maybe it was Charles' ability to encourage her independence, maybe it was his soft nature or his poet's heart. Even now as he laughed at the thought of his demanding younger sister being told she wasn't up to whatever standard they thought they had, she couldn't bear it to hold any ill-will. She was sure he had earned the right to laugh with the amount of times he had covered for her for some reason or another. When the laughter died down to a dull roar, she raised an eyebrow, prompting Charles to pick up the manuscript laying like a chained bullet, just waiting for the word to make history._

_"So will you do it, Charles?" She could held the small plead in her voice, the hitched eyebrows, "It'll make us even for that absolute rubbish I told Elizabeth to get her to even consider you a decent human being." Lips turned slightly up on one side into something of a smirk; though it seemed more of a begrudging smile. Warm and affectionate._

_"In all fairness you did lie to her in the first place. I most certainly did not accost her mother, nor would I ever wish to." She knew she had him the moment his eyes fell upon the title and author of her piece. His large fingers flicked absently through the pages in an effort to look like he was considering it, but in the end he merely looked up with a smile. "A Family Elopement", by H.G. Wells._ She should have felt the triumph she had felt in that moment, but something was pulling her backwards. Out of the scene, and toward that devil's doorway. A cold serpent of dread rolled around her as she watched the scene play out before her, growing more and more distant. Her younger self pulled into a manuscript bearing embrace by her brother, his words of encouragement were barely audible. _"This is the start of something. Isn't it, H.G.?"_

The door slammed in her face, and she was left in the dark. The scene wasn't new, it had rolled through her mind a thousand times. She was always pulled away just before she could feel the cold embrace of her long dead brother, before she could feel the triumph of becoming something. That was all moot now, wasn't it? Who knew what had happened to her work in the proceeding century from when she had put thoughts to paper. She was sure her greatest achievements were stored somewhere in the very Warehouse she resided. Locked up and stored, cataloged and forgotten. She didn't know if she should take it as a compliment that she was considered an artifact herself. She was something worth storing away; she may have collected dust, but there was some indication that she still existed.

"That isn't a toy!" Heaven's call. Her angel's voice wasn't close, not even a little; far off into the echo of the Warehouse. "We're supposed to be taking inventory, so can you stop doing that for five minutes?" It was a taunting whisper; she couldn't feel the touch upon her metal shell, she couldn't feel the flush of breath or the slightest shiver of presence. Was it her mind? Had it already rolled her angel's voice so well into her madness that she couldn't tell its origin? She prayed like she hadn't in years that it wasn't so; that her seraphim hadn't been tainted by her harbinger thoughts. The darkness prodded her, eager to steal this hope from her darkening heart, but she refused. That last chip of what was left of her soul yawned wide, a spark ignited; a waning, flickering light awoke in the darkness. The hallway seemed less foreboding in the unflattering light of hope, it seemed less sinister. Broken tiles beneath bare feet, and cracked wallpaper laid bare on chipping walls.

"The Euphoria Record is supposed to be on shelf 173, Pete. Not 174, didn't you even listen?" She wondered what brought this siren's song to her after so many years of silence. Had her mind suffocated her with silence? She wished the pathetically hopeful light warmed her, but she was cold. The same chill that would plague her forevermore. One step, two steps. Without the goading darkness pushing her aimlessly through her mind, it seemed…trivial, to pass by feeble doors containing nightmare and cherished moments. Her head never turned, her bare feet never stopped. Her destination was nowhere, but she would continue forward. She could not see beyond the feather soft fringes of that feeble light, the darkness just beyond was as devouring as ever; held at bay for only these moments.

"We have to head back up to the office, Artie's found something." _No, darling, don't_. She wished she could open her mouth, let out some pathetic whimper of a plea, but the light was already fading. It flickered, and she could swear the darkness growled at her. It wanted her back, it wanted her back so Ibadly/I. It wanted to sink poisonous teeth into her and devour what was left to consume. But that hope held it at bay; a pitch snout scuffed at the edge, and she felt a shiver of fear lick up her spine. _Don't leave me, Myka._ She couldn't hear her angel anymore; not even a faint, muffled echo. And her soul turned back over in her conscious, falling back asleep; awaiting the moment that it would be awoken again. It didn't have the energy anymore to ward off the darkness; there was nothing to sustain it. It was so worn and tired, torn to tatters and holding on by barely a thread.

_"Please mummy!"_ The voice cried, fear laced in the young voice, it raised high and wild, like a cornered animal. _"Don't! Please, don't! Mummy! **Mummy**!" _The darkness devoured her, pulling her under with a renewed fervor of hunger. Hope was a delicacy to her madness, it hadn't tasted it in so long. It _delighted_ in pushing her feet down the dark hallway, her sense of self dizzy and confused as she found her hand forced onto a knob. It burned her, scalding to the forever chill in her bones. It wretched her hand and opened the heavy door, the scene was another she was familiar with. The dark room drastic with the Paris storm outside the windows; the dangerous lick of shadows stretching across the expensive floor, the crash of glass and the high-pitch yelp of young pain.

_No, no, no! Myka? Please, please…_ Her desperation for that brief flare of safety was swallowed by the tightening darkness around her, pulling her into the scene, pulling her unforgiving forward. She resigned to her fate, she swallowed that piece left of herself so deeply inside herself that it wouldn't be touched by the scene that was playing out before her.

Her sentence was decided, with the gate's of hell being closed behind her…


End file.
